Belladonna after midnight

The first thing Elara Voss noticed about Belladonna was that the gargoyles were staring at her. Not in the decorative, stone-statue sort of way. Actually staring. Their black marble heads turned as her carriage rolled beneath them, their eyes glowing faintly violet in the evening fog. Elara leaned toward the window. One of the gargoyles perched above a bakery tilted its head. She narrowed her eyes. It narrowed its eyes back. Then it stuck out its tongue. Elara sat back slowly. “No.” The driver glanced at her through the small opening between the front seat and the passenger compartment. “No what?” “That statue moved.” The driver shrugged. “Probably.” “Probably?” “It’s Belladonna.” “That does not explain anything.” “It will.” Elara folded her arms. She had been inside the city walls for exactly eleven minutes, and she had already decided that accepting this job had been the worst decision of her adult life. Possibly the second worst. The first had involved a musician, three bottles of champagne, and an accidental engagement she had spent six months trying to legally undo. She did not like remembering that one. Outside the carriage, Belladonna stretched beneath a bruised purple sky. It was beautiful in the way dangerous things often were. Black towers rose between crooked buildings painted in deep reds, smoky blues, and fading gold. Floating lanterns drifted above the streets without chains or poles, each carrying a small blue flame. One of the flames leaned toward a woman passing beneath it. “Your husband is lying about where he goes on Thursdays,” it whispered. The woman stopped. “What?” The flame coughed. “Nothing.” Elara stared. The driver chuckled. “Streetlamps gossip.” “Of course they do.” “They’re terrible with secrets.” A skeleton in a green waistcoat crossed the street carrying flowers. A witch argued with a broom that had apparently gone on strike. Two ghosts sat outside a café playing chess. And a tiny dragon slept curled around the chimney of a butcher shop. Elara pressed her forehead against the glass. “What kind of city is this?” The driver looked offended. “A civilized one.” A loud shriek came from somewhere nearby. Someone shouted, “GET IT OFF MY FACE!” A flock of winged rats flew across the street carrying what appeared to be a man’s wig. Elara looked back at the driver. “Civilized.” “Mostly.” The carriage turned onto a narrow cobblestone road. At the end stood a massive clock tower. Black iron hands pointed to midnight. Elara checked her wristwatch. It was six forty-two. “Your clock is broken.” The driver stopped smiling. “The Belladonna clock doesn’t tell time.” “What does it tell?” He hesitated. “Deaths.” Elara slowly looked back toward the tower. The clock rang once. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed. The driver sighed. “See?” Elara stared at him. “You’re joking.” “I wish.” The carriage continued. She suddenly understood why the employment contract had included unusually generous life insurance. When Elara had received the letter three weeks earlier, she had thought it was some elaborate prank. Belladonna Museum of Arcane History. Position: Historical Archivist. Salary: absurdly high. Housing: provided. Hazard bonus: included. She had stopped reading carefully after the salary. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two had been ignoring the sentence near the bottom. The museum cannot be held responsible for possession, temporary death, permanent haunting, spontaneous transformation, curses, memory loss, unexplained duplication, or romantic entanglements with immortal entities. At the time, Elara had assumed it was a joke. Now she wasn’t so sure. The carriage finally stopped. The building outside was narrow, elegant, and deeply unsettling. A sign hung over the entrance. RAVEN HOUSE Underneath, in smaller letters: Residents are advised not to feed the basement. Elara stared. “Feed the basement?” The driver began unloading her suitcase. “Don’t worry about it.” “I am extremely worried about it.” “You’ll get used to things.” “That sentence has never comforted anyone.” He handed her the suitcase. “Apartment thirteen.” “Of course it is.” He grinned. Elara pulled several bills from her purse. The driver shook his head. “Silver.” “I don’t have silver.” “Gold?” “No.” “Moon coin?” “What is a moon coin?” He sighed. “Foreigners.” “Take the cash.” He examined the bills suspiciously. Then pocketed them. As Elara started toward the entrance, the driver caught her arm. His expression became serious. “Miss Voss.” She turned. “Yes?” “Do not answer your door after midnight.” Elara blinked. “Why?” “Nothing good knocks after midnight.” She stared at him. The driver considered that. “Actually, sometimes food delivery does.” “Oh.” “But the delivery people are usually dead.” Elara pulled her arm away. “You are terrible at reassurance.” “I know.” He climbed back onto the carriage. “One more thing.” “What?” “If someone calls your name from underneath your bed…” Elara waited. “…don’t look.” The carriage rolled away. Elara watched it disappear into the fog. Then she whispered, “I hate it here.” Something inside the sewer whispered back. “You just arrived.” Elara froze. “Nope.” She hurried inside. ⸻ Raven House smelled like old books, burning cedar, and something vaguely metallic. A chandelier floated several inches below the ceiling. Portraits lined the hallway. The people inside them whispered to one another as Elara passed. “That must be the new girl.” “She looks nervous.” “She looks edible.” Elara stopped. The portraits became perfectly still. She continued walking. Behind her, one whispered, “I like the boots.” “Thank you,” Elara muttered. Apartment thirteen was on the fourth floor. The staircase moved twice while she climbed it. Elara nearly fell. “Stop doing that!” The stairs creaked innocently. When she finally reached the apartment, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. And stopped. It was gorgeous. The living room had tall arched windows overlooking the city. Dark wooden bookshelves climbed from floor to ceiling. A black marble fireplace ignited the second she entered. Velvet curtains framed the windows. There was a small kitchen, a large bedroom, and even a balcony overlooking the crooked rooftops of Belladonna. Elara dropped her suitcase. “Well.” Maybe this wouldn’t be terrible. She stepped onto the balcony. The city below glowed beneath hundreds of floating lanterns. In the distance, the river reflected violet moonlight. Beyond it stood ancient towers covered in vines and silver flowers. For several minutes, Elara forgot the gargoyles. The talking sewer. The death clock. Belladonna looked enchanted. Almost peaceful. Then a transparent woman rose through the balcony floor. “YOU’RE STANDING ON MY ROSES.” Elara screamed so loudly that several ravens flew from the neighboring roof. She stumbled backward. The woman floated several inches above the floor. She looked about seventy, dressed in an elaborate black gown with white lace gloves and pearl earrings. Also, she was completely see-through. Elara clutched her chest. “You’re dead!” The ghost looked offended. “That is an extremely rude way to greet someone.” “You came through the floor!” “I live downstairs.” “You don’t live anywhere!” The ghost gasped. “Well, that’s just cruel.” Elara closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” “Apology accepted.” The ghost floated closer. “Odessa Grimshaw.” “Elara Voss.” “I know.” Elara opened her eyes. “How?” Odessa pointed at the wall. A newspaper clipping had appeared there. NEW HUMAN ARRIVES IN BELLADONNA. Underneath was a sketch of Elara. She stared at it. “How did they get my picture?” Odessa shrugged. “Magic.” “I hate that answer.” “You’ll hear it a lot.” Odessa drifted into the living room. “I’m your downstairs neighbor.” “You’re a ghost.” “Yes.” “And you’re living downstairs.” “Dying doesn’t excuse you from paying rent, darling.” Elara stared. “I have questions.” “Good. Don’t ask them.” Odessa inspected the apartment. “You have the cursed unit.” Elara nearly choked. “The what?” “The cursed unit.” “You say that like it’s normal.” “In this building? It is.” Elara looked toward the door. “Can I change apartments?” “No.” “Why?” “The building chooses.” “The building chooses?” Odessa smiled sweetly. Elara pointed at her. “Stop saying horrifying things like they’re adorable.” Odessa ignored her. “There are a few rules.” Elara sighed. “Of course there are.” “Never use the elevator after midnight.” “Why?” “It doesn’t always take people to the correct floor.” “That sounds manageable.” “Sometimes it takes them to the afterlife.” Elara stared. “Less manageable.” “Never whistle in the hall.” “Why?” “Something whistles back.” “Fine.” “Never open the third cupboard in the kitchen.” Elara glanced toward it. “What is inside?” “No one knows.” “How can no one know?” “The last person who opened it hasn’t stopped screaming.” Elara slowly turned away from the cupboard. “Anything else?” Odessa thought. “Yes.” “If you hear a child laughing inside your closet—” Elara groaned. “Absolutely not.” “—you should give him a cookie.” Elara blinked. “What?” “He’s harmless.” Odessa smiled. “Mostly.” Before Elara could respond, Odessa sank through the floor. “Good night!” Elara looked down. “Wait!” Odessa’s head popped back through the floorboards. “Yes?” “Is this city actually dangerous?” Odessa studied her. For the first time, her playful expression faded. “Very.” Elara swallowed. Odessa continued. “But Belladonna doesn’t hurt everyone.” “That’s comforting.” “It only hurts the people it notices.” Elara’s stomach tightened. “And does it notice me?” Odessa looked toward the window. Every gargoyle across the street was staring directly into the apartment. “Oh,” Odessa said. “That isn’t good.” Then she disappeared. Elara was alone. “Wonderful.” ⸻ At eleven fifty-nine that night, Elara was asleep. At midnight, someone knocked. Three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. Her eyes opened. She stared into the darkness. Maybe she imagined it. Knock. Knock. Knock. She sat up. The bedroom felt colder. Then a voice whispered from the hallway. “Elara.” Her skin prickled. She remembered the driver. Do not answer your door after midnight. She pulled the blanket to her chin. “Elara…” Knock. Knock. Knock. “No thank you,” she whispered. A fingernail scraped across the outside of the door. Slowly. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. “Elara Voss.” She froze. How did it know her full name? She climbed out of bed. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She searched for a weapon. There was nothing. She grabbed the bedside lamp. It was heavy. Good enough. The scratching continued. “Elara…” She stepped into the living room. The apartment was dark. The fireplace had gone out. “Open the door.” “No.” Silence. Then the voice laughed. A wet, broken laugh. Elara raised the lamp. Something slammed into the door. BANG. She jumped. BANG. A crack appeared in the wood. “Oh, absolutely not.” She backed away. Then a man’s voice spoke behind her. “I wouldn’t open that.” Elara spun around. A stranger sat on her windowsill. She screamed. The lamp flew from her hands. He caught it. Effortlessly. Elara stared. He stared back. “Well,” he said. “That was unnecessary.” “You’re in my apartment!” “Yes.” “How?” “The window.” “We’re four floors up!” The stranger glanced toward the balcony. “I climbed.” “You climbed the building?” “Yes.” “Why?” He thought about it. “The stairs are annoying.” Elara stared at him. Unfortunately, the intruder was extremely attractive. Which felt unfair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed completely in black. Dark hair fell slightly over his forehead. His skin was pale. His eyes were silver. Not gray. Silver. They caught the moonlight unnaturally. There was something dangerous about him. Something too calm. Too controlled. And far too amused by her panic. “Who are you?” “Dorian Blackthorne.” Elara narrowed her eyes. “Blackthorne?” “Yes.” “As in Madame Blackthorne’s Ethical Necromancy?” He sighed. “My aunt.” “Of course.” Another violent impact shook the front door. Dorian stood instantly. The humor disappeared from his face. “Move away from the door.” Elara tightened her grip on the lamp. “What is outside?” “A Hollow.” “That means nothing to me.” “They eat memories.” “That means significantly more.” The door cracked. Something pushed through. Elara stopped breathing. The creature crawled into the room on limbs that bent in the wrong directions. Its body was thin. Bone-thin. Its skin looked translucent beneath the moonlight. But its head— Its head had no eyes. No nose. No ears. Only mouths. Dozens of mouths. All smiling. All whispering. “Elara.” “Elara.” “Elara.” Elara stared in horror. Then whispered, “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Dorian looked at her. “That is your reaction?” “I insult things when I’m terrified.” The Hollow shrieked. It lunged. Dorian moved. Fast. Too fast. One moment he stood beside her. The next he was across the room. A silver dagger appeared in his hand. He slashed through the creature. Black smoke erupted. The Hollow screamed. Elara backed toward the wall. The creature twisted and crawled toward her. One of its mouths opened impossibly wide. “Elara…” “No.” She grabbed a decorative vase. The Hollow lunged. Elara smashed the vase over its head. CRASH. The creature stopped. Dorian stopped. They both stared at her. Elara looked at the broken vase. “That worked better than expected.” The Hollow screamed again. “Never mind!” Dorian grabbed her around the waist and pulled her behind him. Her body slammed against his. For one brief, ridiculous second, Elara became aware of how good he smelled. Smoke. Cedar. Something darker. Then she remembered the nightmare monster trying to eat her memories. “Stay behind me,” Dorian ordered. “This feels very intimate for someone who broke into my apartment.” “This is not the time.” “There is never a good time for home invasion.” The Hollow charged. Dorian buried the dagger into its chest. A pulse of silver light exploded through the room. The creature collapsed. Then dissolved into black ash. Silence. Dorian stood over the remains. Elara stared at the floor. Then slowly looked at him. “You ruined my rug.” He blinked. “You almost died.” “And now I’m upset about multiple things.” For the first time, Dorian smiled. A real smile. It softened his features. Made him look younger. More dangerous somehow. Because Elara realized she liked it. She immediately hated herself for noticing. Dorian wiped the dagger clean. “You’re strange.” “You climbed four floors to enter a stranger’s apartment.” “Fair.” Elara folded her arms. “Now tell me why that thing knew my name.” Dorian’s smile vanished. He looked toward the ash. Then toward the broken door. “What?” Elara pressed. Dorian walked to the window. Outside, the city had gone strangely quiet. Every blue streetlamp had turned black. Every floating lantern had stopped moving. The clock tower began to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Dorian’s face changed. “What?” Elara asked. He didn’t answer. The bells continued. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Then— Fourteen. The sound rolled through Belladonna. Deep. Ancient. Wrong. Elara looked at Dorian. “You said that clock records deaths.” “Yes.” “So what does fourteen mean?” Dorian’s silver eyes met hers. His voice was quiet. “The tower has never rung fourteen times.” Elara felt cold. “Then what just happened?” Dorian looked toward the city. Something moved beneath the streets. Far below Raven House. A deep vibration shook the windows. One by one, the gargoyles across Belladonna turned their heads. Hundreds. Thousands. All facing the same direction. Elara’s apartment. Their eyes began glowing red. Then they smiled. Every single one. Dorian whispered, “It found you.” Elara’s heart stopped. “What found me?” Deep beneath Belladonna, something ancient opened its eyes. A voice rolled through the foundations of the city. Soft. Terrible. Hungry. Elara Voss. The windows shattered. And Dorian grabbed her hand. “Run.”